Geoff Dyer shares with John McFee a talent for spinning compelling prose about almost anything: Muhammad Ali, Miles Davis, the Olympic Games on TV, haut couture, or the arts, whether visual or what he calls “verbals.” All are refracted through a highly literate, unconventional, and discursive instrument: Dyer’s own mind. It comes as no surprise, in the essay “My Life as a Gate-Crasher,” that Dyer decries specialism as boring and timid. Over the decades, Dyer has turned his bold, unruly gaze on photographer Jacques Henri Lartigue, the utopian visions of Joel Sternfeld, and the photographs of carnage of Enrique Metinides, the landscapes of William Turner, and Vincent Van Gogh’s relationship with his brother Theo, as depicted by sculptor Zadkine. He has a knack for finding revealing connections, between, for example, the German poet Rilke and the French sculptor Auguste Rodin. As for “verbals,” these include John Cheever’s journals, Rebecca West great, not easily classified work //Black Lamb and Grey Falcon,// and the journals of Edmund and Jules Goncourt. To top it off, he draws on hilarious first person episodes about what it’s like getting sacked from his first job, coming of age in the dope-crazed London of the Seventies, holding out for the right woman and marrying her. Says Dyer, "One of the most important qualities in life is to hold out for happiness.” Holding out for these essays isn’t a bad idea, either. There’s a happiness in reading them that one of a kind.